


The Kids Aren't Alright

by SpangleBangle



Series: Thominho Week 2016 [1]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Day 1 - Canon Material, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, I mean I'm glad it didn't, M/M, Shippy Rewrite, Short and (hopefully) Sweet, Thominho Week 2016, Tough Boys Crying, Whump, but I thought it was gonna be a Thing all through tst and tdc, featuring one of my pet theories that never came to canon fruition, that tag should be the title of my autobiography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:44:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7252567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpangleBangle/pseuds/SpangleBangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first fill for Thominho Week 2016! A rewrite of the post-Swipe-removal scene in Denver, aka the "you tried to slice my you-know-whats off" scene in TDC. </p><p>Minho is terrified there's something alien still in his brain, and Thomas manages to get him to talk about it. This time round, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kids Aren't Alright

I thought seeing as I'm already writing a [Paradise fic,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4023445/chapters/9044395) and I did the [Rescue Minho](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5063995) scene for last year's ship week, I'd go for a scene rewrite.

* * *

 

Thomas woke blearily to unfamiliar surroundings from a haze of half-remembered dreams, the details of which he knew he would loathe. For a moment he thought he should be worried, but this was becoming such a trend he could hardly be bothered to stress over it. At least this place had a reasonably comfortable bed, even if his head hurt like hell.

And Minho was dozing in a rickety old chair by the bed. So things couldn’t be all bad. He smiled at the sight of his friend, feeling instantly calmed and reassured. He didn’t think he trusted anyone more than Minho now, and he knew Minho was as good as a guard dog. If Minho felt safe enough to sleep here, it must be safe.

Thomas tried getting up, his head still fuzzy, and instantly regretted moving at all. Peals of pain throbbed in his head and his shoulders, arms and spine ached in protest, as if he’d been held down and beaten. Some noise must have escaped from his gritted teeth as Minho stirred, on instant-alert. He met Thomas’ eyes and smiled wearily, looking about as rough as Thomas currently felt.

“Hey,” Minho croaked.

Thomas waved a hand vaguely, still reeling from the sheer pain in his head. “Please tell me your head hurts this bad too,” He hissed. “What happened?”

Minho frowned and sat up a bit. “You don’t remember? The Swipe?” His eyes flicked down to Thomas’ arms and then to the floor, looking uncomfortable. “Hans said you might be confused, that better mean it’s only temporary.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Swipe, dude. The chip those shuck-faces at WICKED put in our heads to block our memories and control us remotely like goddamn toy soldiers?” Minho spat at the floor, scowling. His leg started jiggling.

Thomas closed his eyes as his more recent memories trickled back. He rubbed over his face, registering a dull pain in his upper arms and shoulders. He concentrated for a moment and tried speaking with that other part of his head that could reach Teresa. Nothing. The connection was really gone.

He swallowed over the muted pain in his chest, not sure how to feel about Teresa anymore. At least his thoughts were private again. He stared up at the crusty, unpleasant-looking ceiling of what he assumed now was Hans’ bedroom.

“Is it gone now?”

“Yeah.”

“Yours too?”

“Yeah.”

Thomas rubbed absently over the tender muscles of his arms. “I’m sorry I tried to stab you.”

Minho blew out a harsh breath. “You tried to slice my you-know-whats off.”

Thomas managed a smile, appreciating Minho’s attempt at humour. “Too bad I didn’t. Could’ve saved the world from future little Minhos.” The joke felt creaky and odd in his mouth, but he clutched at the semblance of normality like a lifeline. Like he wasn’t lying in a strange ex-doctor’s bed after having his brain irradiated or something similar to deactivate a literal mind-control chip. Like his friend wasn’t recovering from the same ordeal. Like Thomas hadn’t helped design the damn thing in another life. Like any of the shit they’d been through hadn’t happened. His eyes stung and he kept staring up at the grossly misplastered ceiling.

“I’m sorry I was so rough with you.” Minho said quietly after some time.

Oh, right. Minho, Hans, Jorge and Brenda had needed to restrain and manhandle him until he could be sedated. That would account for all the back pain and bruises beginning to bloom under his skin. Now he thought about it, there were two distinct hand-shaped areas of pain on his arms that he knew would match Minho’s palms and fingers when the bruises appeared. Thomas turned his head to look at Minho again; Minho was scowling down at the floor with an anxious crease to his forehead that Thomas recognised as acute guilt. His arms were folded tightly, muscles bulging as always, with his leg bouncing a tense, worried tune on the floor.

“I’m glad you were,” Thomas replied. “I would’ve tried to kill everyone if you hadn’t done it. I don’t care, Minho. Thank you.”

Minho blinked rapidly, his lips pressed together. He nodded once and swallowed.

Thomas didn’t know how else to help Minho – he was so closed-off and obviously in pain, but it was just as obvious that any platitudes about how necessary it had been would be unwelcome. Minho didn’t really _do_ long, emotional conversations. Action first, agonising later and preferably not at all was more his style. Evidently.

Eventually Thomas decided to be direct. “Minho, get outta that awful chair and tell me what the shuck is wrong. Apart from everything. Specifics would be good.”

That prompted a half-hearted snort of amusement. Thomas eased himself to sitting up and Minho sat beside him on the bed, a tightly-contained ball of energy and strength shaking with closed-down pain.

“How did you know they were controlling you?” He asked in a purposefully-emotionless voice while staring down at his clenched fists.

Thomas watched him for a moment. “My body started moving and doing things without my conscious control. I started saying things I didn’t believe. I couldn’t control my limbs. I couldn’t drop the knife.”

“So it wasn’t…” He grimaced. Thomas waited. “It wasn’t like… just losing an inhibition? You knew the whole time it wasn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” Minho breathed and closed his eyes, looking ill.

“What’s this about, Minho?” Thomas asked as gently as he knew how. His chest hurt just looking at his friend.

The muscles in Minho’s jaw worked and spasmed a few times. He resolutely kept his gaze down. “I thought – I was hoping… ugh. I was hoping they’d been controlling me. So I wouldn’t be going – wouldn’t be to blame.”

“For what?”

“Shuck’s sake, Thomas! For everything! Everyone I’ve hurt!” Minho cried. “The last few weeks, ever since we got outta the Maze, I just – I can’t control myself! I’m so _angry_ , Thomas, all the fucking time. I can’t stop myself pickin’ fights, gettin’ mad and doing stupid, reckless shit.” He took a shaking, raw breath and looked up to the ceiling wretchedly. “I’m scared I’ve got the Flare, dude. I’m so fucking scared this thing is turning my brain inside out and making me – making me crazy. Making me into a Crank. I’m goddamn infected, dude, let’s just face facts. I’m going batshit.”

Thomas felt like he’d been gut-punched. _Not him, not him._

“Janson said you’re Immune.” He managed to say.

Minho looked at him with watery eyes and let out a harsh, cynical laugh that grated on Thomas’ ears. “Would you really trust Rat Man to give us anything like the truth? Fuck what he said. Fuck WICKED. Fuck their experiments and cures and variables. I’m going mad and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

“Stop it,” Thomas whispered hoarsely. “Stop it, Minho. You’re Immune. You’re not going mad. You’re _not_.”

Minho laughed again and Thomas wanted to hit him. “Stop it, Minho!”

“That’s the thing, I fucking _can’t_!” Minho shouted, his voice cracking into a heart-wrenching sob. “I can’t, Thomas.”

Thomas seized the sides of Minho’s head and pulled him close, fingers clutching tightly to his hair. Thomas didn’t even care about the weeks of sweat and dirt they were both covered in head to toe. He forced Minho’s eyes to meet his own.

“You’re not going mad,” Thomas said firmly, ignoring the wetness on his own cheeks. “You’re not. Because I can’t lose you too. So you can’t be going mad. I need you too damn much. You mean too shucking much to me.”

Minho’s face crumpled and he began to sob in earnest, ugly, painful tears that stretched his mouth and cheeks in odd ways. Thomas didn’t care. He pulled Minho closer and held his head into his chest, cradling him as he cried. He dimly felt Minho’s arms come around his waist and cling to his sides and shirt, desperate for help. Thomas gritted his teeth over his own tears and stroked through Minho’s greasy, gross hair, trying not to imagine the brain possibly on fire just beneath his fingers.

“I’m sorry, Minho. I’m sorry you got dragged into all this by WICKED. I’m sorry I helped build the Maze. I’m so fucking sorry for everything you’ve been through.”

Minho’s hands smoothed over Thomas’ back and he spoke through ragged gasps for breath. “You were just a kid they manipulated like the rest of us. I need you too. Way too much.”

Thomas rested his cheek on the top of Minho’s head and stroked down his neck to his shoulders. Minho’s breathing gradually slowed until they sat slumped into each other, exhausted and wrung out of tears. Whatever Minho was still thinking about the state of his brain, Thomas knew it would take something big to make him talk about it again. He smothered a sigh and pressed a gentle kiss to Minho’s forehead. Minho clutched at his sides in response, his knuckles lightly brushing Thomas’ ribs through his shirt. Thomas closed his eyes briefly, willing them to stay in that moment where yes, things were shit, but at least they had each other close and real and tangible to help each other through it. He wished they could stay holding each other and not have to face the rest of their party or the outside world or any of the things they had made themselves responsible for fixing. Time was ticking, and they couldn’t stay holed away forever.

“Slinthead.” Minho muttered eventually as he sat back up and rubbed over his puffy, red eyes.

“Shank,” Thomas offered back with a weak smile. Minho’s lips tilted up a little and Thomas counted it as a victory.

“What do we do now?” Minho asked.

“Go back to sleep?”

“You know that’s never an option.”

Thomas grimaced in agreement. “I guess we’d better go find Gally and the Right Arm.”

“Ugh,” Minho replied.

“Got any better ideas?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

“ _Ugh_.”


End file.
